


Champion

by mysticmajestic



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Blood and Violence, Established Relationship, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mild Gore, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Violence, nothing too graphic, shangst, taking care of shiro
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-03
Updated: 2018-06-03
Packaged: 2019-05-17 18:36:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14837048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mysticmajestic/pseuds/mysticmajestic
Summary: On a mission to free prisoners from a Galra base, Shiro's reminded of his past life in the Empire as their Champion. Lance must break him free of that toxic mindset before it's too late.





	Champion

**Author's Note:**

> When I started writing this I was so sure that I could make it work for Fluff Week. Nope. Unless I'm writing a micro-fic, my fics tend to come out with their fair share of angst.
> 
>  **22/08/2018:** After rereading this fic, I chose to do some editing. There were some mistakes that I just didn't pick up on the first time around. Nothing major about this fic has been changed.

It happens when they are on a mission together.

Lance keeps his bayard in its blaster form for now, trailing along behind Shiro to watch his back as Shiro clears out the prisoner bay. So far, Pidge hasn’t said anything over the comms about this section of the ship being occupied by Galra, but her tech has been known to glitch out before at the wrong time. No piece of technology is going to run perfectly one-hundred percent of the time.

“It’s okay,” says Shiro, as he opens the door to the first cell. “I’m here to rescue you.”

“Champion?” one of them whispers in reverence. From this distance, Lance sees Shiro wince, taking half a step back from the door as if to physically put distance between himself and that cursed word. “Is it really you? Everyone, this is the Champion! We’re saved!”

Shiro shakes his head slowly. “I’m not…”

That’s enough. Lance races up to the door and gently nudges Shiro toward the next cell. Dazed, Shiro goes where he’s directed. Lance figures they’ll be having a long cuddle session after this to reorient Shiro, which is good; Shiro’s hugs are almost as great as Hunk’s.

“Listen, we’re running on limited time here,” he says harshly. The aliens inside blink up at him in shock. “The Galra could come back at any moment. We have a pod prepared for everybody here, but if you take too long ogling _Shiro_ ,” his glare is cutting as he puts on emphasis on that word he will not tolerate hearing directed at Shiro again, and he wants everyone to know that, “then we waste time saving you and you all could die. Or remain imprisoned for life. It’s your choice.”

He steps to the side, throwing out an arm to encourage them to move down the empty corridor. In the cell next to theirs, four aliens dart out, each muttering, “Champion, champion” under their breath. Lance grits his teeth at Shiro’s lost expression.

The aliens in Lance’s cell move slowly, one by one until they reach the corridor. Then they’re running, tripping over their own feet, desperate for the freedom that’s so close they can taste it.

“Podship is the third exit on your left,” says Lance, hoping his words aren’t falling onto deaf ears. “ _Do not_ activate it under any circumstances.”

The last thing they need is for someone to get antsy to leave and activate the podship before the prisoner bay is all cleared out. It's the only one they have.

When the last cell unlocks and the prisoners clear out, Lance notices that Shiro’s standing still, peering into the cell as the door whirrs to a close. He doesn’t move, doesn’t blink. Hands are balled at his sides and the line of his shoulders is tense. Lance wonders what reality he’s grounded in right now; theirs, or the memories of his past as Champion.

Biting his lip, he glances nervously behind himself as the last alien skitters around the corner to the podship, then decides they have just enough time for a pep talk. He walks up to Shiro but stops a couple of feet away, rolling his shoulders back and making himself look bigger, though not threatening.

“Shiro,” he says firmly. “Shiro, look at me right now.”

Shiro’s head twitches slightly. It reminds Lance of the way wary animals will twitch their ears as a way to signal that they have heard you but are otherwise preoccupied with watching out for a nearby predator. Still, Shiro doesn’t turn around or acknowledge Lance in any other way. That’s just not on.

“Shiro, it’s Lance. I want you to look at me _right now_.”

No effect. Okay then.

“Shiro, it’s Lance, and I’m going to put my hand on your shoulder. Don’t, you know, attack me or anything.” Lance extends his hand slowly, making sure to remain in Shiro’s line of sight. He’s seen what that cybernetic hand can do to an enemy and has no desire to experience it for himself. When his hand is but centimetres away, he adds, “Touching now.”

At the contact, Shiro gives a violent twitch and sucks in a sharp breath—and then he turns and looks at Lance, eyes wide and wet. Ignoring the sharp sting of sadness in his heart, Lance drums up an encouraging smile for him.

“Hi there,” he chirps. “Still with me, bub?”

“I…Lance, I…”

“It’s okay. Don’t listen to anything anyone says. You’re not the Champion. You’re Takashi Shirogane, pilot of the Black Lion and leader of Voltron. We know who you are but those aliens don’t, so _their_ opinions of you don’t matter. You feel me?”

Blinking at Lance as if he’s the most wondrous thing in the universe, Shiro’s mouth opens and closes as he fails to formulate a response. All he can do is nod.

“Good,” says Lance, grinning. “Now let’s get that podship going, alright?”

“Guys.” Pidge’s voice crackles over the comms. “You need to get moving. There’s a Galra on the move, and he’s heading in your direction. Fast.”

“Copy that, Pidge,” says Lance. Then to Shiro, “Let’s go.” 

The aliens are jammed into the podship like sardines. There's barely enough room for them to wriggle without striking someone else. None of them complain. Some of them are crying, seeking comfort in the arms of another. Others stare vacantly ahead at nothing as if they can’t believe freedom is once again within their grasp.

“Coordinates locked in?” asked Shiro.

Lance quickly double-checks. “Yup. Should be heading straight for the castle.”

“Alright, let’s send it—”

A bright blast dents the metal beside Lance’s head and, with a strangled yell, he ducks out of the way—narrowly avoiding a second shot. Reorienting himself as he shoves himself to his feet, he spots a snarling Galra near the west corridor.

“You will not have those prisoners!” shouts the Galra, firing at Shiro who leaps to the side then barrel rolls to his feet. “I’ll kill you all where you stand!”

Activating his cybernetic arm, Shiro lunges for the Galra. “Lance, get the prisoners out of here!”

He swipes at the Galra’s head, but the Galra ducks, shoving his blaster into Shiro’s side and knocking him off-balance. Lance is struck with the urge to assist Shiro, but he turns away; out of the two of them, Shiro is, without doubt, the better fighter. Lance would only get in the way.

So, he does as he’s told.

“Shit,” he mutters. The Galra’s initial shot had grazed the control panel, not enough to destroy it but enough that half the buttons don’t work. He activates his comms. “Pidge, I need your help here. The panel’s broken. I can’t get the pod to launch.”

“Send me a scan of it,” she replies. “Let me see what I can do.”

“On it.”

As he scans the panel, there are two shots in quick succession and Shiro yelps in pain. Lance whips his head around, alarmed. Shiro's down on one knee, cybernetic hand covering a deep cut in his upper left arm right below the shoulder. It bleeds so profusely that a small pool of blood forms at his knees. He favours his right leg, the one he’s not leaning on, and the bodysuit is torn just above the armour to reveal a nasty burn that, at a glance, looks at least of the third-degree variety.

The Galra grins victoriously, levering his blaster at Shiro’s head. “This is all the famed Champion has to offer? A shame. You do not live up to your reputation.”

“Shiro!” cries Lance.

“No!” says Pidge. “Don’t move Lance, I’m not done here!”

Catching himself before he moves too far away, Lance grits his teeth, helpless. He watches Shiro suck in two deep breaths before he tilts his head back, a dark scowl on his face.

“What did you call me?” he whispers. His tone of voice sends a shiver of fear rolling down Lance’s spine. It’s as if the temperature of the room has dropped several degrees in an instant.

The Galra does not heed the dangerous change. Instead, he rewards himself with a monologue.

“Ever since you arrived, all I’ve heard is the Champion of the Gladiator Pits. Kills his enemies, merciless in the ring. And yet here you sit, at my feet, like an obedient yupper. It’s disgraceful.” He laughs, though there’s nothing but malice and scorn in it. “Maybe when I kill you, they’ll call me Champion next. That’s after I have a little fun with your pet over there.” He nods at Lance, who freezes in horror, his stomach roiling as he realises exactly what the Galra is implying. “Champion Slayer and Paladin Fucker they'll call me. Sounds like a nice title, don't you think?”

Heedless to his injuries, Shiro surges to his feet and shoves the Galra against the wall. He grabs the Galra by the forehead and smashes his head once, twice, three times into the metal, then plants his good knee solidly in the Galra’s stomach. The Galra chokes back a scream, blood dripping from the corner of his gaping mouth.

“You will not,” Shiro says thunderously, “touch Lance.”

He rips the blaster away from the Galra, spins it deftly in his hand, then bludgeons the Galra in the head with it several times. The Galra goes limp, remaining upright only because Shiro's strength keeps him there. 

“You will never,” Shiro grabs the Galra by the chin, tilting his head back until they look at each other eye to eye, “call me Champion again.”

The sight of Shiro’s animalistic rage terrifies Lance, leaves him weak at the knees. Numbly, he’s aware of the prisoners in the pod crying and hugging each other, pressing as far back into the corners as they can possibly get. For a wild moment, Lance wants to pry the doors open and join them.

This isn’t the Shiro that Lance knows and loves. This is a man possessed by rage, possessed by the ghost of his past.

 _This_ is the Champion, the persona that lurks within Shiro, and he’s come out to play.

“Lance,” says Pidge, causing Lance to jump in fright. “I have the coordinates and everything is ready to go. Just hit the button. It should launch.”

Lance jabs the launch button and the podship starts to move backward. The aliens inside cry out, first in panic, and then in relief as they’re distanced from Shiro. Lance takes two steps back from the podship, watching it disappear into the inky blackness of space, then spins around when there’s a sharp, guttural cry that’s cut off just as quickly as it starts.

Shiro’s activated his cybernetic hand, scorching the flesh of the Galra’s throat. The stench of burning hair and skin sickens Lance; he almost loses his lunch right there on the floor. The Galra’s eyes roll madly in their sockets, making choked, bloody gurgles as he dies a slow, agonising death.

“Shiro, let him go,” says Lance, but his voice is little more than a whisper. Gathering up his courage—what little there is left—he yells, “Shiro!” Shiro’s head twitches slightly, the only sign that he’s heard Lance speak. “Shiro, let him go. He’s dead, or as good as. That’s _enough_.”

“He’s not dead yet,” snarls Shiro. “After what he said, he deserves this.”

“If you keep this up you’ll regret it later. Yes, he’s still alive. But if you let him go, I can shoot him in the head.” Lance summons his blaster, holds it up for Shiro to see.

“No,” says Shiro. “This is not your kill, it’s mine.”

“If you let him die this way, you’ll be the Champion he said you were.” Lance winces as Shiro whips around, hurt and surprise warring for dominance. “Don’t let him be right. You’re not the Champion, remember? So don’t act like it. Move away, let me kill him.”

Lance surmises that the Galra doesn’t have long left to live. Maybe a minute if he’s unlucky.

“Move, Shiro,” Lance orders. “Right now.”

Mercifully, Shiro obeys; he releases the Galra and lets him slump down the wall and into a bloody heap on the floor. Backing away, Shiro puts his hands in the air in a show of surrender.

Lance smiles at him, unable to help the tears that drip down his cheeks. “Thank you, Shiro.”

Hardening his resolve, he whips his gun up, aims, and shoots the Galra in the head quickly, just in case Shiro tries to break his word and take the kill anyway. Lance looks away from the gory remains of the Galra, who has just enough of his skull left to show one wide, terrified eye, a quarter of a nose, and an agape mouth with missing or broken teeth.

“Let’s go back home,” he says instead, holding his hand out to Shiro. “We’re done here.”

 

* * *

 

 _What have I done?_ A voice in Shiro’s head repeats those words, over and over again, alongside the memory of burning that Galra’s throat—and enjoying it. His skin crawls as he remembers that bloodlust, that urge to maim. To make that Galra hurt until the bitter end.

He feels Black’s concern skirting around the edges of his mind, but he shuts her out. There’s no way a person, a thing, like him deserves comfort.

Black flies on autopilot; Shiro can’t concentrate on anything aside from his own inner turmoil.

_“If you let him die this way, you’ll be the Champion he said you were.”_

God, what kind of leader is he? Gives in to his own aggression and thirst for blood, then has his own teammate—his boyfriend—step in and kill in his stead. There’s blood on Lance’s hands that Shiro put there himself. He’s supposed to be _better_ than this.

He doesn’t deserve any of the good things he’s been given. Not the title of leader, not the title of the Black Paladin, not Black’s trust, and definitely not Lance’s love.

Monsters don’t deserve love. And that’s all Shiro will ever be.

A monster.

 

* * *

 

As soon as they’re back on the Castle, Shiro disappears. Walks out of his Lion, orders everyone not to use the Castle’s technology to find him, and goes straight to the bowels of the Castle.

Lance wants to follow him and make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid, but holds himself back; if he can’t respect Shiro’s need for privacy, then it’s as if he doesn’t respect Shiro at all. Shiro will come back to Lance when he's ready, and not a moment sooner than that.

Still, Lance can hardly concentrate. Allura’s debriefing them all, appearing just as frazzled as the rest of them are. Realising she doesn’t have any of their attention, she closes off the debrief by informing them that the aliens they saved are either in healing pods or put into the guest wing of the Castle until they can be returned to their home planets. She dismisses them.

Hunk is quick to fall into step with Lance, knocking their shoulders together gently.

“What happened down there?” he asks. “You and Shiro came back looking like ghosts, then he just took off.”

Lance sighs and leans into Hunk. “Honestly, buddy? I think it’s better if you don’t know.”

Hunk winces. “That bad?”

“Mmm-hmm, pretty fucking bad. I’m just glad it’s done.”

Even though he says it with conviction, he knows that not everything is over and done with yet. The aftermath of today’s mission will linger for days, maybe even weeks. Getting Shiro to trust in himself again, to come out of his shell _again_ , will take time. But Shiro’s more than worth the effort.

“Hey, listen,” says Hunk, breaking Lance out of his reverie. “If you’re not busy, wanna help me make dinner for everyone? We have a lot of mouths to feed tonight.”

Mustering up a weak smile, Lance replies, “Sure, buddy. ‘Course I’ll help.”

 

* * *

 

Lance doesn’t see Shiro at dinner that night. Doesn’t see him at all as he gets ready for bed afterward. For the first time in months, he falls asleep alone.

 

_“If you let him die this way, you’ll be the Champion he said you were,” says Lance._

_Throwing his head back, Shiro laughs. An ugly, wolfish, animalistic sound that makes Lance weak at the knees with terror._

_“Of course I’m the Champion!” Shiro shouts. “I’m the Champion, Lance! That’s who I am! That’s who I’ve always been!”_

_“That’s not true.” Lance stomps his foot. “That’s not true, Shiro, and you know it! You’re Takashi Shirogane. You were born on Earth, in a country called Japan. You always wanted to be a fighter pilot, and you were the best damn fighter pilot of your generation! Your parents died in a car accident when you were little, but you were raised by your grandfather until you got a scholarship to the Garrison in America when you were sixteen. Sixteen! You know how amazing that is? You know how amazing you are?”_

_“But I’m not that man anymore,” says Shiro. He breaks the Galra’s neck one-handedly and throws him to the side like trash. “I’ll never be that man anymore.” He lifts his cybernetic hand up to eye-level, giving Lance a good look, then clenches it into a fist. “I am what the Galra made me. The Champion. The most feared warrior to ever grace the gladiator pits. Haggar’s pet.”_

_“You’re not a pet! You belong to no one!”_

_“I belong to the Galra,” Shiro refutes calmly as if he’s talking about remarkable weather patterns on the planets they’ve traversed. “They made me what I am, so you better get used to it.”_

_“No. No, I won’t.”_

_“But I thought you loved me, Lance?” Shiro asks in a mocking falsetto. “I thought you loved me exactly the way I am. Well, this is me, Lance.” He throws his arms out wide, grinning, pleased as punch. “This is who I am. Do you love me now?”_

_“I love my Shiro,” says Lance. Watches as the smile slides of Shiro’s face like water. “You’re not my Shiro.”_

_“That’s a shame,” says Shiro. He’s pinning Lance to the wall by his throat before Lance registers that he’s moved. The metal hand is freezing. “Because if you loved me still, you might have made it. I may have decided that you’re fun to keep around. But you’re just as boring as the others, and you’re just not worth it anymore. Goodbye, Lance.”_

_He activates his cybernetic hand._

_  
_

“No!” Lance bolts upright, fighting his way out of the confines of his blankets until he spills onto the floor.

The shock of the fall snaps the last image of dream-Shiro’s savage grin from his mind, letting the details of his semi-dark bedroom swim into focus.

“Just a dream,” he whispers to himself. “It was just a dream.”

He takes a moment to breathe and calm himself down, then gets to work untangling himself from his blankets and standing up.

The door whooshes open just as he throws the blankets back on the bed in a heap.

“Lance?” asks a small voice. Shiro. “You awake?”

Lance turns. Standing there in his bloodied armour, a hand over his eyes as he takes in shuddering breaths, is Shiro. He hovers uncertainly in the doorway, trembling from head to toe.

“I’m sorry,” he whimpers.

And just like that, Lance has no capacity to be angry or scared. Can never be, not when Shiro’s reduced to this.

“It’s okay,” he says.

Shiro shakes his head wildly. “No, no it isn’t. God, Lance, what I _did_ —”

“Let’s not talk about that for now. You need a bath.”

Lance heads for their wardrobe and pulls out Shiro’s paladin pyjamas. Shiro doesn’t often wear them, but tonight’s a special occasion.

“But we need to talk about this—”

“And we will, Shiro, I promise. Just know that I’m not mad and I’m not scared. But you’re not okay right now, so we’re not going to talk about it tonight.” Taking Shiro’s hand, Lance leads him in the direction of the washroom. “C’mon. Bathtime.”

The one thing Lance loves about Altean washrooms is that you can choose whether you want a shower or a bath. At the press of a button, whichever one you’ve chosen rises up from the floor, complete with a remote to control water temperature and pressure.

Lance takes his time helping Shiro undress, tossing his armour and bodysuit into the corner. Getting Shiro into the bathtub, Lance turns up the water temperature until it's almost hot enough to melt skin from bone. Just the way Shiro likes it.

Shiro draws his knees up to his chest and wraps his arms around his legs. Seeing Shiro in such a vulnerable state...Lance is struck by just how young Shiro still is. He makes it easy to forget, what with the wisdom and his epic leadership skills. But just like Lance, Shiro’s a kid thrown into a war they’d never previously known about.

Grabbing a washcloth, Lance dips it in the water and rubs it over Shiro’s back, ignoring the instinctual way Shiro shudders under the gentle touch as if expecting something worse.

Carefully, Lance bathes Shiro. Rubs away the blood and sweat that clings to Shiro’s skin. Massages shampoo and conditioner into Shiro’s hair then cups his hand over Shiro’s eyes to protect them each time he dumps water over his head. All the while, Shiro sits there quietly, staring ahead at nothing.

Until he finally speaks.

“The worst thing is that I enjoyed it,” he whispers. “I enjoyed the power-kick I got, holding that bastard’s life in my hands. Everyone was right,” a sob burst from his lips and he lowers his face into his lap, “I _am_ the Champion.”

“No, you’re not,” Lance denies vehemently.

“How can you say that? Think about what I did.”

“I’m thinking about what you didn’t do; you didn’t kill that Galra. You could have, but you didn’t Instead, you listened to me and backed away. You let me take that kill.”

“God, but that’s so much worse…”

Lance frowns. “How? How is that worse?” He tries to get Shiro to look up by pressing two insistent fingers under his chin. Shiro refuses to budge. “No, Shiro, look at me. How is it worse?”

“B-because you had to get blood on your hands because of me.” Shiro’s eyes are red and glassy, the skin around them puffy. Tears spring to Lance’s own eyes at the sight. “Me and my stupid issues. I should have had more control than this. You, Pidge, Keith, and Hunk…you all rely on me. Rely on me to be your leader. How can I do that if I fall apart and make you take the kill? How can I do that if I can’t protect you guys from what it feels like to murder someone?”

Letting out a tiny, choked laugh, Lance leans in and presses his forehead to Shiro’s.  

“Shiro, I love you so much, but sometimes you can be an idiot.” Lance waves away Shiro’s protests before he can formulate them. “No, listen to me. You hold yourself to such a ridiculous standard sometimes. We’re fighting in a war. There’s no way we can avoid killing people sometimes. Yeah, none of us like it, but when we became Paladins we all knew the cost. It is not on you to keep our hands clean or do all the dirty work. We’re a team. We rely on you, but you also have to rely on us.

“We have no idea what you truly went through during your year of captivity, but we do know that it’s changed you. Not for the worst,” Lance hastens to add. “You’re not a bad person because you had to kill to survive. They made you do that. The Galra called you Champion because you were entertainment to them, and the prisoners followed suit even though to them you were something to be feared, just because you were doing the same thing they had to; fight to survive. You weren’t a person to them. But you’re a person to us. To Voltron and all of its allies. You’re Takashi Shirogane, lovingly known as Shiro. Not once have we ever seen you like the Galra do.

“I know that with your trauma, you can’t trust yourself. So trust in us. In me. We’re your family, Shiro. We love you. Let us be there for you.”

Shiro’s crying silently, biting his lower lip. “I-I’ll try.”

Sliding his fingers up Shiro’s cheeks to bury them in his soft, thick hair, Lance kisses his eyelids reverently. “That’s all I ask. Now, come on. Bed time. We’ve had a long day.”

He helps Shiro up and out of the bathtub, then dries him off with a white, fluffy towel.

“I don’t—I don’t know if I can sleep.”

“Then we can hold each other for the rest of the night, instead,” says Lance. “Maybe I’ll even sing you a song if you ask me nicely enough.”

At that, Shiro seems to brighten a little bit. He puts on his pyjamas as Lance empties the tub and puts it away, then takes Lance’s hand and guides him to the bedroom.

They have a lot to talk about after this; a lot of issues to work through. They haven't touched on a lot of stuff they know they should. The elephant in the room sits patiently, waiting to be given its due attention, and they'll get around to it when they feel mentally prepared for it. 

Tonight's just not that night. 

They do end up cuddling; Shiro’s head is pillowed on Lance’s chest, warm and snug under their nest of blankets and Lance’s strong arms. Lance plays idly with Shiro’s hair because he knows how much Shiro likes it. Lance can only hope that Shiro falls asleep tonight, and that his dreams are kind.

_For once, let this beautiful man have kind dreams._

Shiro yawns loudly, then mutters, “Will you sing me a song?”

Lance kisses the crown of his head. “Of course.”

And so Lance sings;

 _“Arrorró mi niño,_  
arrorró mi sol,  
arrorró pedazo,  
de mi corazón.  
  
Este niño lindo  
ya quiere dormir;  
háganle la cuna  
de rosa y jazmín.  
  
Háganle la cama  
en el toronjil,  
y en la cabecera  
pónganle un jazmín  
que con su fragancia  
me lo haga dormir.  
  
Arrorró mi niño,  
arrorró mi sol,  
arrorró pedazo,  
de mi corazón.  
  
Esta leche linda  
que le traigo aquí,  
es para este niño  
que se va a dormir.  
  
Arrorró mi niño,  
arrorró mi sol,  
arrorró pedazo,  
de mi corazón.  
  
Este lindo niño  
se quiere dormir...  
cierra los ojitos  
y los vuelve a abrir.  
  
Arrorró mi niño,  
arrorró mi sol,  
duérmase pedazo,  
de mi corazón.”

**Author's Note:**

> Second time using that song in a fic because I love it so much. Please leave a comment if you enjoyed it! It means a lot!!


End file.
